Shedding the Cocoon

Growing up, Keri Abrams was one of those kids who rarely smiled. Shy and quiet, Abrams never got to know anyone, never reached out to others. It was out of fear, concerned that by talking, others would find out who Abrams really was.

But a part of Abrams wanted others to know.

In college, virtually every night, Abrams would wear pantyhose. “It was my way of feeling feminine,” she says. But in a guy’s dormitory in the 1970s, you never knew when your dorm room door would fly open in the middle of the night and you’d be dragged from bed. “I think I really wanted to get caught,” she says.

Abrams knew she was a girl and always had been, but the body she was born in said otherwise. In those pre-Internet years, it was hard to research exactly what was going on.

Decades later, she was looking for information, and found the James River Transgender Society. It was an eye-opener to find other people like herself. Her experiences there led her to medical providers who could help her attain the physical expression of her true self.

She came out in 2011 and had her first facial surgeries in her transition.

“I didn’t just come out of a shell, but I burst out of this shell or cocoon that I had lived in most of my life.”

With a growing assurance of who she was, Abrams found her voice. She began to share her story, and provide a public face for a hidden community, speaking to classes and groups. It’s a way to enlighten people about what they fear, and that’s why she puts herself out there. “I didn’t just come out of a shell, but I burst out of this shell or cocoon that I had lived in most of my life,” she says. “I realized that I wanted to talk about who I am.”

Abrams tells others who are transitioning to take a positive approach, to describe what’s going on as exciting. She also tells them to live as she now does: Live life for themselves, and be brutally honest.

Abrams paid about $15,000 for her surgeries, which were not covered by her health insurance, nor was she able to claim the procedures as an income tax deduction. Now, people who opt for the procedures may have costs covered through health insurance, or may be able to write them off on their taxes.

The financial cost was steep, but worth it. The greater fear for Abrams, and other trans people, is whether you will lose friends and family over transitioning. Abrams’ family was supportive for the most part.

Her parents, Jean and George Abrams, are in their 90s and have been there for Abrams. Her mother accompanied her to Chicago for her top procedure, and offered to go with her for her bottom surgery in Pennsylvania. “You can’t ask for better than that,” Abrams says.

And for those relatives who were not supportive, well, that’s their problem, she says. “Issues are totally on them,” she says. “It’s up to them to renew the relationship. They only have to say ‘I’m sorry,’ or apologize.”

Life in Full

Motorcycles have been a constant in Abrams’ life.

As a child, Abrams considered motorcycles as nothing more than death waiting on two wheels. Her brother bought a bike in the mid 1960s, and Abrams admonished him in the way only siblings can chastise one another: “You’re going to die!” And yet, later on as a teen, Abrams entered a pact with friends that they each would buy a bike and hit the roads.

Turns out, only Abrams bought a bike, a Kawasaki TS125 Duster. And that became a lifelong passion. “I fell in love, and that led to everything else,” she says.

That first year after her procedures, she was repairing motorcycles on the side. When customers called, she would tell them that she had transitioned, and that if they couldn’t handle it, she’d understand. Most had known over the years, and few seemed bothered.

“It’s up to them to renew the relationship. They only have to say ‘I’m sorry,’ or apologize.”

She’d greet them in a dress to show she wasn’t joking, and yet she also wielded humor to defuse tensions. Yes, she would say, she still could work on motorcycles, and she still knew the difference between a hammer and a screwdriver, although she may charge them an extra $25 for each nail she broke.

“Humor can really play a major role in how people read you, and maybe accept you,” she says.

Today she’s a mechanic with the Motorcycle Safety League of Virginia in Richmond, a job she began in December, and sees retirement in the Outer Banks on the horizon.

“It comes full circle,” she says. “I have been a fortunate person.”

Abrams says that even when she began her transition in the early 2000s, she rarely faced animosity in the metro area. She says the city offers a congenial, relaxed and friendly climate, with a supportive government and political structure. “I’ve been very lucky. I don’t hide who I am,” she says.